


it’s just a headache.

by Owlite



Category: Original Work
Genre: Flashbacks, Graphic descriptions, Hurt/Comfort, Past Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, Violence, again. kinda, disorientation, kinda?? more of a tough love kinda comfort but it’s there, lydia isn’t prepared to deal with any of this so she’s just rude with good intentions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:07:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24137857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlite/pseuds/Owlite
Summary: monday mornings are always kinda rough, huh?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	it’s just a headache.

**Author's Note:**

> read the tags, it’s kinda bad. i almost did worse but i actually starting feeling bad for roland and cut out a whole section. lmao
> 
> excuse the borderline unreadable dialogue, roland’s stutter is pretty bad and lydia just likes to speak in short sentences for some reason.

Roland woke with a start, eyes opening to the unpleasant brightness of lamplight filtering through the ajar door to his quarters. He lifted his head and groaned in discomfort, next stretching out his legs. The hard floor was hardly cushioned by the straw-stuffed pillows he had under him. (If only he could afford to have a real room, one with an actual bed.)

Still, there was no time to lie on the floor and whine, as he was fortunate enough to even have a bed. Roland never accepted charity from others. Many times has Lydia offered him such a room he wished for, but he could never accept such a gift in good conscience. ‘I’ll work for my money and pay for my own bed,’ he insisted.

His work was never enough, it seemed. There were never enough hours in the day. From sunrise to noon he would go out to work wherever a job could be found, be it a field, a dock, or a shop. Until sunset, he would tend other’s animals. From then until late at night, he would play for and entertain those at the Lucky Rat Inn for his daily meal. Only then, he could sleep for a meager five hours until it started again. At the end of the day, every bit he’d earned in the day paid to feed Adigo and keep his broom closet of a room.

Roland had woken up early this morning, the sun was most certainly not up yet. Only for a second did he consider sleeping some more before he dismissed the idea. Eyes still blurry from the harsh light, Roland sat up with no little trouble. He was quickly stopped by a blunt force knocking him straight back onto the floor. A low shelf hung from the wall of his bed, intent on preventing Roland from getting out of bed it seemed.

Roland bit his lower lip to hold back his cries, tears welling in his eyes immediately due to the sharp and awful pain. The shelf had hit right above his right eye, and it couldn’t have been more painful of a spot.

He rolled to the side, blanket falling off of him entirely as he held the injured spot with both hands. He felt a wetness, on his palms, white and hot and  _ excruciatingly painful. _

It was like the familiar feeling of the hilt of a shortsword striking his head, the skin under the point of impact breaking and beginning to gush.  _ The pain was so great, he felt nothing at first. Then, it came worse than he could ever imagine. Already on his knees, he collapsed into the grass. He was unable to scream, but also unable to lose consciousness. A boot-clad foot kicked his shoulder, rolling him onto his back. Someone spoke. It sounded phonetically English, but it was like listening to someone speak Greek. Only as his volume rose could Roland begin to understand. _

_ “Don’t you hear me?! Get. Up!” _

_ Roland didn’t move, feeling as dead as he likely was. He didn’t expect to die so early. _

_ A crushing weight settled on his neck, constricting his throat and letting no air pass through. Suddenly, Roland felt like he was alive again. He squealed and yowled like a cat, clawing at the leg attached to the foot choking him. _

_ Despite his wordless cries, the weight on his neck grew and grew. No air could enter his lungs. Blood began to seep from his nose. Everything was starting to blend into one big… thing. He felt tired… _

_ There was a _ pop _ as the foot rose and stamped down again on Roland’s throat. _

_ Oh, oh god… _

Roland lowered a hand to see that his hand was clean. More of the imaginary blood began to run down his face, dripping from the tip of his nose and running past his bruised lips in fire-hot rivulets. Panic began to set in, and he scrambled for his blanket—the nearest thing to grab—and pressed it to the phantom wound.

Roland sat up again, desperately clutching the blanket to his temple, unexpected pain shooting through his whole body. Unprepared for the shock of agony, Roland was unable to hold in his agonized yell. It was loud and awful, like that of a strangled animal caught in a trap. It was a beaten kind of pain, like he’d been in a fight and lost horribly.

His legs felt numb, and his ankle felt loose and broken again.

He felt the sickening sensation of old wounds reopening as more blood started gushing from stripes across his back. Roland began to hyperventilate, unable to do anything. His breaths came short. Too short, he couldn’t gasp in enough air and he was already feeling lightheaded. The sounds of glass and metal clinking together downstairs sounded miles away and Roland half-wondered if he might actually be drowning, and just imagined being back where he could breathe.

He might actually still be in Sardorn, twenty years ago, and fantasizing about a normal life as a bard in a tavern, too idiot to work an actual job, as he knew was the case. He wondered about seeing Beck again. Or even Cain.

Roland began to drift, feeling more tired than usual. It wasn’t quite an exhausted-tired, though… Shit, was he bleeding out?  _ Nonononono. Gotta stop the bleeding. If I pass out I won't get to sleep through the night. I might miss my meal. Shit, I won’t be able to work. Adigo! I miss Adigo. I hope Tia is feeding him. Please don’t let Adigo die. You can’t feed him. You’re not even alive. Tia, you’re such a bitch. No-no- wait- I didn’t mean it! _

A harsh slap of icy water hit his face, soaking his hair, his clothes, his bed. Roland screamed again, this time in terror. He shielded himself with both hands and scrambled away from the source, whimpering out unfinished  _ sorry _ s and other gibberish apologies.

_ I’ll get up, I’m up! I’m awake! Shit- I’m awake, I swear! _

“What are you doing? Are you okay?” A hand took tight hold of Roland’s arm, pulling it away, Roland fought against it.

_ No, don’t look, it’s nothing, I- No- nonoNO! _

His assailant pulled his arm aside, only for him to see… Lydia, kneeled before the edge of his blanket, a bowl in one hand, his arm in her other.

Roland practically went limp seeing her. Her face was as blank as ever but there was deep concern in her eyes. “I said, what are you doing? It sounded like you were… gettin’ beat up here. You started yellin’ at me. I knew you were awake.”

Breath was still hard to come by, his heart pounding in his chest. Each inhale was like another twist of a knife in his heart. He almost wished he would just stop breathing then so that it would stop hurting. Lydia waited patiently, though her face was suddenly ster His head was spinning, and he felt almost as if he’d finally fall unconscious. He opened his mouth to speak, but only squealed pathetically.

“You can speak,” she stated obviously.

“I… I’m s-so-so s-sorry. I-I was get-getting up…” Roland held her arm with both hands, suddenly finding a reliable tether to the present moment. Lydia didn’t mind his calloused hands holding onto her, albeit a bit too tight.

Lydia’s eyes went from concern, to a brief flash of understanding, back to her signature unfeeling stare. “No, you can stay in bed.” Lydia left no room for argument. It was a command, if ever there were one. “You will stay in bed. I will feed Adigo. You room is free tonight. If you feel well, go and sleep in a different bed. I will see if Beck can visit. Do not argue. I will change my mind. You will sleep outside in the dirt.”

Lydia stood, leaving the room without another word. Roland stared at his hands, confused and scared. He was clean. (Or, as clean as he could be. He was always covered in dirt.) There was no blood. The blanket was wet with only water. He reached to run his fingers along his back. His nails skimmed over smooth-feeling scars and returned squeaky clean.

She returned to hand Roland a new blanket, which he assumed was meant to towel dry his sopping wet hair. Before she left again, Roland found his ability to speak again. “What…”

“You go missing for hours in the morning. I hear a scream. I fear the worst. Would have stabbed you if I didn’t think twice.” She held up a curved dagger, the one she carries all the time. There was no hint of humor in her voice nor her face.

Roland zeroed in on the blade, a shudder wracking through his bony body as he felt suddenly cold. Lydia quickly hid the knife behind herself.

“D-Do-Don’t send-send for Beck…” Roland whined, almost inaudibly.

Lydia paused. “Fine. I will not. But you will see her tonight.”

**Author's Note:**

> i might make a next chapter with beck, but we’ll see. it’ll be a bit nicer than this. but also probably worse. beck’s a bit better at comfort, and at least understands roland. but we’ll see ;^]
> 
> feel like i should make it clear, there’s no relationship going on here. lydia is roland’s boss and beck is his closest friend. don’t even


End file.
